


Fifty-Six Scutts

by staygaytabulous



Category: My Chemical Romance
Genre: Apocalypse, BL/ind - Freeform, Danger Days: The True Lives of the Fabulous Killjoys, Post-Apocalypse, The True Lives Of The Fabulous Killjoys, bob isn't an asshole, bob without a beard can I get a hell yes??, frerard if you squint real hard, he's just grumpy and hot and sweaty, this is more steam punk than killjoys
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-09-08
Updated: 2015-09-08
Packaged: 2018-04-19 20:15:37
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,038
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4759562
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/staygaytabulous/pseuds/staygaytabulous
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Ah another Monday (well, actually it's  Tuesday, but we had Monday off so it was still the first day of school this week) another writing assignment in Short Stories I.<br/>This is set in more of a furturistic Mad Max/steam punk world, but references very little Killjoy stuff.</p><p>I don't own anybody. Yet, anyways, yet. I have plans, you see...</p>
            </blockquote>





	Fifty-Six Scutts

I look up at Frank as he tries out his hovercraft for the first time, his grin wild and his eyes filled with the glee of a three year old. Hes been waiting for this moment for just about his entire life, and now it's finally coming true.

"Just 'cause you get a cool new toy to play around with does not mean your better than me and therefore can bully me around and slack off." I tell him. He pointedly ignores my comment by flying by his car, nearly scraping dry mud and old paint right off of it. "Frank, cut it out or I'm leaving.

Frank smirks and swerves it towards my head, making me duck down before he knocks me out, "Yes it does mean I get to tell you what to do, because _BL/ind ordered me to make another one of these things_. You don't want to disobey 'em, and you know I can't get this done without your help. Now hand me my wrench, I'm adding a cup holder to this thing."

I roll my eyes and walk over to his work bench and sift around the piles of badly drawn creations Frank's thought up over the past few months. Papers upon papers are scattered eveywhere and I can't understand how he finds anything in the cluttered mess. I knew I was messy, but I'm an artist, I have an artist's mind set and therefore have an artists personality and habits, too.

"Frank," I say, "nothin's here. You sure you didn't leave it at the shop?"

Frank frowns slightly, "No, it was here a minute ago, I swear- hey. Hey what's that?"

I look up from his bench, "What's what?" I ask, looking around the garage.

Frank huffs, " **That**!"

I turn around, "Same as it was five minutes ago."

He lowers himself and the hovercraft, grabing at my leather and metal belt, "You don't carry a wallet anymore, your last one tore right in half three projects ago, you sneaky little-"

"What're you doing?" I scowl, yanking my shirt down over the back of my tool belt down, "No groping me at random times, save it for your girlfriend."

Frank holds up a little white box and gives me a soulful look, "You've had these this entire time and didn't even think of sharing! After all we've been through, Gerard, I thought I knew you knew better." He pouts.

I sigh and reach for it, but he holds them above his head. If it weren't for the stupid craft I'd be able to get them, what with him being shorter than me by at least three inches, but he's up in the air floating now, and opening up the almost-new pack.

"Aye' Bryar!" He yells to the open garage door, shoving a death stick in the corner of his mouth, "Get in here, man, Gee's been right awful to us lately," he speaks fluently from years of smoking back before the revolution.

A few seconds later, Bob walks in, shirt off and sweating profusely, rubbing a greasy hand over his face. "I'm working Iero, what do you want." His voice is gruff and tired.

Frank smirks around the cigarette, holding up my last good pack, "Gee's been hiding them. Can't keep stuff like this hidden for long, though. Want one?"

Bob curses and says he'll take one. He never really had smoked before, but I don't blame him for accepting, most people haven't seen or even heard of cigarettes in a while. These things are like a form of money, just like in the old jails. The more you have, the better off you are. I've been hording them up in a box under my bed for years. Fifty-six scutts left, though now I suppose it's fifty-four.

"Frankie," I whine, "those cost me my last good pair of shorts, give 'em back."

Frank just snorts, "You have never worn shorts in your entire adult life- minus that one time, but that's besides the point because they were my shorts and someone stole your pants. Anyways, let us have a bit of fun, we've been working all day. Poor Bob looks like he's about to break down." I glance at Bob, and he really doesn't, "C'mon Bob," he says, "Give Gee a look, he'll give in. He always does when I give him the puppy eyes." To prove his point he gazes at me with wide, sad eyes.

I scoff at him. Turning back to Bryar, I raise a brow, "What? You and your big, burly self gonna give me the doe eyes?"

Bob shrugs and takes the cancer stick that's dangling from Frank's outstretched hand, "I don't have a lighter on me," he states, then blinks at me a few times. He never was one for keeping up a conversation.

Huffing, I reach into the small pouch next to the one I kept my box in, taking out a small, almost broken by now, lighter and throwing it at him. He grabs it mid-air and quickly lights a flame. Frank's buzzing with energy above us, waiting for his turn.

Bob looks up at him before tossing it back to me, then scratches at his stubble. A week ago there was a long overgrown beard in its place. Weird. I shove it in my pocket and smirk at Frank's disappointed face. I say, "I believe you have something of mine?"

He pouts at me, but once seeing I'm not giving him something he wants until he gives me back what I want, he rushes himself and the hovercraft over to his work bench, making paper ideas fly off, and grabs an old lighter off of the top of a cabinet. Not a normal one, no, but a  _utility lighter_. He lights his death stick and breathes it in deeply, bliss written on his face from the taste of an old addiction rekindling. Yeah, I know that feeling.

We all stand around for a bit, the guys smoking half-hazardlessly and me breathing in their second hand smoke. Just another day in a bad world with an even worse government, but at least there's still a little bit of hope in friends and deadly tobacco.


End file.
